Out
by NezumiPi
Summary: 17-year-old Paul Rovia isn't Jesus yet. He's a gay kid living in a Virginia group home. And he wants out.


"All right Paul, that's an hour," said Hendrick. "You can come back in."

Paul swung his rake over his head so that it landed perfectly by his feet. "I'm almost done. Can I keep going for extra points?"

The staff member checked his watch and shrugged. As long as he was out here with a kid, he basically had a paid smoke break. "Sure, whatever." The group home ran on a point system, whereby kids got points for doing chores and basic shit like getting out of bed in the morning. They lost points for infractions but could gain some back by completing their punishments without too much fuss. Really, a kid like Paul didn't need the system. It was for the more fucked up residents. Hendrick's fingers itched for a cigarette. "I'll help," he said, less out of charity than a desire to keep busy. "We can do your check in while we finish up."

"Oh, can we? Pretty please?" asked Jesus, voice brimming with heavy-to-industrial grade sarcasm.

"You want to be a little shit about it, you can go right back on consequence."

"Sorry."

Hendrick rolled his eyes. Nice thing about Paul was that he at least knew how to fake sincerity. Some of the other kids were offensively bad actors. Paul was annoying, but he rarely broke major rules, and when he did, it was more the sneaky kind of trouble than the gangs-and-knives kind. "What did you do wrong?" he asked, in the bored tone of a familiar ritual.

"Violated the house computer use policy," answered Jesus, with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

"And what could you do differently next time?" This question was supposed to prompt the kids to think about their behavior and improve problem solving or some similar bullshit, but never had the desired effect.

"Get gay porn from the public library instead."

Hendrick elected to ignore this plan. "Just be more discreet," he said. "You really want the other boys catching on that you're into that stuff?"

Paul elected to ignore Hendrick's suggestion. "I personally feel much better, now that we've had this talk. Really ready to go forth and use computers in a manner consistent with Youth Residential Media Restriction statute 2-A."

"I don't get paid enough for this shit," grumbled Hendrick.

"None of us are paid enough for our labor. Workers of the world, unite! Overthrow the bourgeoise! We have nothing to lose but our chains!" By the last exhortation, Paul was holding the rake over his head with both hands, shaking it with faux-Marxist zeal.

* * *

 _ **Two Months Later**_

Paul sat on the porch. His arms and legs were too long for his body, and he looked uncomfortably thin. He was wearing tight black jeans and a ratty t-shirt. Even thought it was summer, he wore a knit cap pulled down past his eyebrows.

"Paul," said the woman, "they told me you were out here. We can meet right here if you like."

Paul looked up and made eye contact. He didn't particularly want to talk to his social worker at the moment, but his bad mood wasn't her fault, and it was no reason to be rude. "Hey, Miss Shelby."

"Hello." She sat down next to him on the steps. "I hear you got your AP scores."

"Yeah, fives on psych and English, and a four on bio."

"That's amazing!" She sounded sincere. She probably was. There weren't many kids in the group homes on track to graduate, let alone with honors. "You should be so proud, Paul. Whatever else happens, you should be proud of that."

"Thanks, Miss Shelby." Paul made himself look a little shy as he accepted the compliment.

"Are you going to take your hat off?"

At that, Paul subtly shrunk in on himself. "Do I have to?"

"No." The woman shook her head. "The staff told me about what happened. I know there had been a few small incidents before, but-"

"They're not 'comfortable' with me," interrupted Paul, making air quotes.

"I had hoped that the tension would resolve itself, or at least hold steady until we could intervene."

"Yes, well, clearly this is not the best of all possible worlds," said Paul, resting his chin on his knees. "That's Voltaire," he added. Paul always attributed his quotations.

Miss Shelby looked at Paul with pity for a few seconds before speaking again. "I want you to know that I'm very sorry this happened to you, and that the boys responsible are being punished." She paused to give Paul a chance to respond, but he said nothing, so she continued. "I think we can all agree that it would be best if you and they were separated."

"That's giving them what they want," protested Paul. "That's how this all started – they didn't want to live with a-"

"Sometimes," interrupted the Miss Shelby, "what's right and what's fair aren't the same thing. You don't deserve to have to move after they did…such a horrible thing to you." She put her arm around his shoulder. "I'm going to ask you to understand something, Paul. Something very subtle that I would not normally ask teenager to grasp." She paused for Paul to nod in confirmation and when he did, she continued. "I have a lot of kids on my caseload. It's my job to get the best outcome possible for the greatest number of kids. We've talked about it before. You said it was like some philosopher?"

"Utilitarianism. John Stuart Mill."

"Right," she said, recognizing their previous conversation if not its apparent underpinnings in Enlightenment metaphysics. "You're doing well. Even when something like this happens, you're coping without using drugs or getting in fights or smashing stuff. That's pretty rare." She sighed. "I'm moving you and not them because you can take it and they can't."

"That's not fair," said Paul, voice betraying just a hint of a whine.

"Right and fair aren't the same," repeated Miss Shelby.

"You're going to reward them for-" He paused as Miss Shelby inhaled sharply as if about to interrupt again. "No," he hissed, whipping off his hat. "They wrote 'faggot' on my forehead. They shouldn't get what they want."

Miss Shelby stared at Paul. The boy looked smaller with his hat off, embarrassed of the visible evidence of his housemates' assault. "They are not being rewarded," she said. "Every one of them is on consequence and lost substantial points. But I'm not going to make you stay here with kids who've been bullying you just to prove a point."

Paul opened his mouth as if to argue, but shut it without speaking. He frowned, eyes wide and wet before leaning gently against Miss Shelby. He crossed his arms against his body. "It was Sharpie," he said softly. "Permanent marker. Is there a way to make it come off faster?"

"If there is, I don't know it."

"When do I go to the new group home?"

"About that," said Miss Shelby, "I have some good news for you. You're doing so well in school, with your chores, your points, everything. I've persuaded the county to grant a waiver for you to enroll in the transitional housing program a year early."

"That thing for kids who age out?"

"That's right. No more group homes. You'll have your own apartment. It'll be small, just a studio, but all yours."

The light flooded back into Paul's eyes. "My own apartment? My own apartment!" He straightened and looked ready to jump up and down. "Why didn't you lead with that?!"

Miss Shelby patted Paul's shoulder. "Because, sweetheart, eventually the excitement will wear off and you're going to see that being on your own is hard, and it's lonely. And when that happens, I want to make sure you know that you're not being punished, that we didn't kick you out for being gay."

Paul made an effort to look suitably solemn for a few moments before he was no longer able to restrain his smile. "When can I move?"

"It'll take two or three more days for the Section 8 housing inspection, so you'll stay in the temporary shelter downtown until then. But," she smiled and reached into her briefcase, "until then, you can take a look at the transition program paperwork." She handed him a yellow paper. "This is the list of all the housewares you're provided." She turned it over. "This is the monthly stipend you get for living expenses. You can start making a wishlist of things you're going to need and we can try Goodwill for some bargains."

Paul held the paper with both hands. Then, as if overcome, he dropped it and hugged Miss Shelby. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you."

She hugged him back, right hand stroking his long hair. "I'm so proud of you, Paul. You earned this."

The next few days of Paul's life were both hectic and boring: Moving out of the group home. Sitting around the shelter. Filing emancipation paperwork. Sitting around the shelter Making a sworn statement to the judge. Sitting around the shelter. Getting his key. Carrying his stuff up the stairs (all two boxes of it). Going grocery shopping for the first time in his life.

Before she left, Miss Shelby brought a final package up from her car, a large boxy form wrapped in newspaper. "Go on," she said, "unwrap it. It's a housewarming gift."

Paul obligingly tore off the paper and smiled. A rickety little bookshelf.

"I know you love to read," said Miss Shelby, clearly a bit pleased with herself.

"It's perfect," said Paul.

And then she was gone and Paul was left to put his groceries away in his little cupboard, to fold his clothes and arrange them in his closet, to set his books on the garage-sale shelving unit. Once he had done all of those things, he finally allowed himself to walk into the bathroom (his own private bathroom!) where he took off his hat and looked at himself in the mirror. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail, taut and out of his face. Then he closed his eyes and sprayed himself with hairspray, a thick coat over the length of his forehead. Paul wasn't a particularly avid student of chemistry, so he wasn't sure exactly how this trick worked, but he had heard about it from some kids at school, and had tested it on his own ankle to make sure it was effective. After a few moments, he washed his face with soap and water, and was relieved to find that the writing had been removed. Pleased with himself, he removed his boots and lay back on his bed, relaxed and satisfied as the lord of his tiny kingdom.

Paul reached into the pocket of his jeans and with a smile, he rested his fingers on his Sharpie.


End file.
